


and i wrote it on my heart

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Miscommunication, feat. jamie benn for five whole seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 21:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16860763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: is anyone there?Tyson writes on his wrist.He waits.Nothing.





	and i wrote it on my heart

**Author's Note:**

> do u ever just forget how to write anything but s/o au’s??? me too babe
> 
> i’ll edit someday, just slap some flex tape on those mistakes for me

Tyson wakes up on his eighteenth birthday with an odd prickling on his palm, and he absentmindedly scratches at it before his brain catches up with his hands. It’s an entire process, just getting out from underneath his mound of blankets to pull together enough space to breathe. Even then, he can’t see his palm until he shucks the sheets off. 

There, he catches sight of neat handwriting etched over the lines of his palm. It almost looks like wet ink, but when he scrubs at it, it doesn’t come off.

 _buy milk_ it says, and Tyson watches an exclamation point appear at the end of it, almost like someone’s sitting in front of him writing it out. He feels a bubble of excitement in his stomach as he leafs through his nightstand’s drawer, looking for a pen, marker, whatever.

He finds a pink one. It’s glittery and shimmers when Tyson tests it out on his notebook paper. Which is fine, he guesses. Pink is a cool ass colour, even if it’s shiny. He’s just really at the point where he doesn’t care what colour anything comes through, he just wants to talk to his soulmate. 

Which is justified, he hopes. Because the wait was eighteen years. A long, long eighteen years.

His arm is a blank slate, pale skin readily available for him to write out a message. Anything. And suddenly he’s self conscious about his handwriting. Suddenly, his mind empties and his heart thuds a little harder against his chest. Suddenly, everything is a little worse.

It takes a moment of evaluation before Tyson stops arguing with himself over something and goes with a simple _is anyone there?_

He waits.

Nothing.

Obviously he’s not going to get anything back right away, and he shouldn’t expect it. Because judging from the scrawl on his hand, which is slowly fading away, his soulmate’s writing out a shopping list. Or just busy shopping. And who is he to interrupt any of that. Aside from like, being the person the universe paired them with. 

It’s okay, really. Tyson doesn’t mind. Why would he.

 

 

His morning is easy. He drinks a smoothie, nearly cuts his finger chopping up strawberries, and goes for a run. By the time he gets back, he chances a glance at his arm and is faced with nothing but that same message he’d left earlier.

_is anyone there?_

It looks lost now, somehow. Like it doesn’t belong. Tyson tilts his arm towards the light and watches the ink sparkle, blowing out a small breath. If he’s getting ghosted, well. He can deal with that. There are plenty of people that would actually appreciate him _and_ his goddamn glitter pens. 

 

 

It’s about a week later that something finally shows up on his skin again. And, _oh_ , he checks. You better believe he does. Every hour of every day, met with nothing, nothing, and nothing. 

This time, the sensation of the ink appearing doesn’t sting as much. It feels like the ball of a pen when it appears, rolling over his skin in careful strokes. And Tyson wants to ignore it because finally getting a response after a week’s time isn’t exactly instant messaging, which is what Tyson had expected this to be. Sending cute little messages to each other throughout the day, followed by promises of meeting up someday.

But no, he had to get the downer soulmate. Because that suits his personality so well. 

He ignores the lines on his arm for a minute until he finally cracks, and takes a peek under his hoodie sleeve. Which—it’s not really what he expected to see. The ink is wordless, nothing Tyson can read. Instead, its a bundle of flowers. Curling over the front of his wrist and trailing over his veins.

It’s not taboo to doodle on yourself or anything, Tyson’s no stranger to drawing smiley faces and infinity signs on his fingers, but like. These look _good_. Intricately drawn petals, shaded in by purples and blues. It makes Tyson smile, and for a second, he forgets he’s supposed to be holding a grudge against this kid. 

He bites the bullet and grabs a pen, still watching the flowers being topped off by green leaves, and smiles. Because, hey, everyone deserves a second chance.

That’s how Tyson ends up scribbling _wow!!_ into his palm. 

He sucks in his bottom lip, waiting for something, _anything_. The flowers stop appearing, and they’re fading, little by little until they’re gone. Just like always.

Tyson keeps his eyes trained to his skin, hoping for a response. But. Nothing. And he isn’t even sure why he’s surprised.

 

 

A lot of art starts appearing on his skin. Little works spiralling over his skin in coloured ink, red, orange, yellow—all the colours of the rainbow. Sometimes they end up looking like pieces Tyson would seriously consider getting permanently tattooed into his skin. 

But, like, it doesn’t matter how good the art looks when the person creating it doesn’t wanna talk to him. He tries not to come off as desperate, but he’ll send encouraging little notes every time something appears on his arm, or his fingers, and even his leg at one point—appearing as an anklet made of inky flowers.

He’ll just get more doodles, more art, more pieces that look like they could qualify for serious competitions, but he never gets words. Other than the occasional reminder his soulmate will scribble down, which really only makes Tyson feel worse. If they’re literate, why the fuck is he being ignored.

For starters: when _look for ur paintbrushes dumbass_ shows up on his wrist, he smiles a little. 

He sends back a _be nice :o_ in return. And, no surprise, nothing comes back. His soulmate seemingly has a pen with them at all times, would a simple hello really take that much time out of their day?

Fuck this, Tyson thinks, and ignores the pen swatches that show up on his wrist.

 

 

“My soulmate won’t talk to me,” Tyson says, and Jamie looks up from his textbook to pass him a confused look. 

“Why? You’re fun,” he tells him, because Jamie’s a real one, and he knows exactly how to bump up Tyson’s ego. As if it’s not big enough yet. 

He sighs dramatically, slumping back against his chair. “I _know_ ,” he says, and stares up at the ceiling. “I mean, I’ve tried contacting them, like, a billion times.”

“And you never get anything back?”

Ha. Tyson wishes. “Not once. Not even a name. Like, isn’t it common courtesy to at least talk to your soulmate? They don’t even know me yet and they already hate me.” 

Jamie makes a considering noise, tapping the end of his pencil against his textbook. “Maybe they don’t believe in soulmates? I heard that’s what CJ did, just ghosted his soulmate until the messages stopped coming through.” 

Tyson totally gets the whole not being into soulmates thing. It’s cool to go against the universe, or whatever. If someone he really likes ever asked him out, he’d probably dip. But he never thought he’d be on the other end. It doesn’t feel great. “Nice, I love that,” he says sarcastically, and frowns at his arm. 

And that’s when it starts prickling, this light sensation flooding down his nerves as ink begins appearing again. Speak of the devil. “They’re really into drawing, I guess? That’s all I ever get from them,” he explains, his eyes zeroing in on the lines carefully gliding across his skin. 

“At least you don’t get radio silence?” 

“You want me to communicate with art?” Tyson thinks about it for a minute. “I’ll draw a giant middle finger.” 

“Yeah, no, you don’t wanna start shit. Imagine waking up one morning with a dick on your forehead,” Jamie offers, sounding horrified. Tyson really hopes he isn’t speaking from experience. 

“I hope you realize it would go away. This shit fades like that.” 

Jamie frowns. “Nobody else might know, but _you_ will.” 

Tyson laughs, throwing a pillow at him, and when he catches another glance of his wrist, there’s a dream catcher staring up at him. “Wait, look,” he says, and holds his arm up for Jamie to see. It’s not exactly polite to check out another person’s ink, they learn that from a young enough age, but Tyson’s granting him permission. So.

“Damn,” Jamie says, and scoffs. “All that and not even a greeting? You’re fucked.”

Tyson thought as much.

 

 

He stops trying to catch his soulmate’s attention after a couple months, because it becomes impossibly clear that he’s not deserving enough of their attention. 

The art keeps on coming, and Tyson watches it get better and better over the year. He’s still mesmerized by the things that show up on his arm, if not maybe a little peeved. It works wonders as a reminder that his soulmate doesn’t want shit to do with him, but it doubles as a something pretty to look at. Which is. Yeah.

 

 

He cracks nineteen, and has a summer fling with some guy from New York. 

In the long run, it doesn’t work. Mostly because Tyson moves back to BC for uni, and long distance relationships just aren’t his thing. Or at least, not since getting tossed to the side by the soulmate. That’s not really his thing either.

The guy comments on the artwork on his arm one morning, but Tyson’s all too distracted by the way his eyes twinkle in the soft orange light spilling into their room to talk about it. 

He’s just—he’s over it. He’s fine on his own. He doesn’t need a soulmate. 

But. 

It’s late November, Tyson’s warming his hands with a latte, and his wrist starts burning up. For a minute, he thinks it’s from the coffee, and sets it down on the table in front of him.

But when he looks, there’s ink on his skin. Part of him doesn’t care enough to check it out, but what comes through doesn’t look like art. And, at closer inspection, it very clearly isn’t. 

_hey! is this working?_ it reads.

Tyson stares at it for a minute, and nearly considers not replying. But, like, he really doesn’t wanna be that guy, even if he got fucked over by this same person for over a year. 

He grabs a pen, tests it on a piece of paper, and then grabs another one because the ink didn’t flow smooth enough. He has standards. Pink glitter pens are a thing of the past.

 _yeah, are you only now realizing you can actually send me messages??_ he replies, and regrets it for a minute, because he doesn’t mean to come off as bitter as he does. But, seriously, ignoring him for a year and suddenly hopping back into his life isn’t going go be that easy. No matter how much Tyson’s stomach flutters with excitement. 

He feels eighteen again, scribbling away in his room in hopes of meeting his soulmate. It’s just that he got nothing back then, and squashes the thought back down. He’s not eighteen anymore.

 _i mean. i really couldn’t before. so._

Tyson squints his wrist. It takes so long to process the words that they might as well be in a language other than english. He isn’t sure what that means, why his soulmate could literally sketch out pieces of art on his arms but not send him a message. Because he _couldn’t_?

He rolls his eyes and writes back, _yeah?? i mean, this isn’t very hard is it??_

There’s a pause, and Tyson sees a small dot show up on his wrist. It’s like the pen touched his wrist before lifting back off instead of writing something out. Typical. 

_it’s not like you ever sent me anything_ comes another message, and this one doesn’t make any sense.

_ohhhh you must be blind_

_no. i am not._ they write quickly after, and Tyson feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. _i never got anything from you, honestly_

A part of Tyson refuses to believe that, because there’s no way anyone would miss the telltale stinging of ink being transferred into their skin. But like, _u wanna let me know how that works??_

 _i just turned eighteen._ There’s another pause. _you want me to explain how soulmates work or??_

Tyson’s mouth goes dry at that, and he just—he has to take a minute to piece everything together. Or, well, everything pieces itself together. Of fucking course he’d never gotten anything back, the connection was only one way. Tyson’s older. The ability came to him _first_.

He groans and puts his head in his hands.

 

 

So, Tyson’s soulmate is an art student named Gabe. 

Gabriel, actually, but the second he called him that, he got threatened with art sabotage. Dicks, specifically. Which was enough to keep him down, seeing how he has classes to go to and dicks definitely aren’t a look. 

Gabe’s from Sweden, and Tyson doesn’t say it, but he’s pretty sure that means he’s a certified dime. Not that he puts looks over personality, but like. Sweden. Blondes. It’s a thing.

He’s got a bunch of unimportant information, too, because for some reason he’s a lot better at memorizing that scene from The Simpsons that Gabe found funny rather than things he should be memorizing. Like key information for midterms. But knowing Gabe’s favourite fruit, for example, is apparently a lot more important. 

_breaking news: you’re ruining my life_ he sends Gabe, and falls back against his bed. He stares at the ceiling while he waits for a response, which comes relatively quickly. 

_mission complete_ Gabe writes, and then _also, how??_

Tyson smiles, and everything is a little better. He feels like a teenage girl texting her crush, but better. _ur always on my mind, it’s a distraction_

 _awww_ Gabe draws a heart on his palm before going back to writing on his wrist. _i think abt you a lot too :)_

 

 

Tyson has Gabe’s number, but he prefers writing to him the old fashioned way, all inconveniences aside. And Gabe chirps him all the time for it, but there’s something so much more personal about it. About seeing Gabe’s handwriting pop up on his skin and watching it fade, only to write a response in its place.

It’s not easier. It’s definitely not as convenient as calling him or sending a text, but that’s the charm in it. Like seeing Gabe doodle on the back of his hand while he writes out a response, getting covered in flowers and stars.

He likes it.

 

 

In fact, he likes Gabe.

There are so many parts of him that make Tyson think he got unfairly lucky with this soulmate shit. That the universe was working in his favour, pairing him up with a Swedish dreamboat with a heart of gold. One that won’t judge him for going off on late night tangents or live texting him his trip to McDonald’s at 3 AM. 

Everything about Gabe is so fucking special. Things that Tyson knows would get to him even if they weren’t soulmates. Like his voice and the way it rolls off his tongue like honey. Or just how his hair looks during early morning FaceTime calls. Or maybe the look he gives Tyson every single time they see each other, that patient gaze softened by his smile. There’s just so much underneath it, like he thinks Tyson hung the fucking moon or something. 

It’s a lot, definitely, but it’s all he needs. He’s not sure how he ever lived without it. Without _Gabe_.

 

 

 _still kind of a dick move that you ghosted me for a year_ Tyson sends him one day during class, and he can’t keep the smile off his face as he waits for a response, clicking his pen on and off.

_still kind of a dick move that you covered my hand in your fucking to do list_

Oh, right. _want me to write you a love poem to make up for it?_

_no, business students can’t write poems_

_you know from experience?_ Tyson writes, and adds his best winky face right next to it. It turns into a smudge, because Tyson can’t even handle that much apparently.

Gabe strays off from the conversation, asking him, _was that supposed to be a crab u just drew?_

_shut up i’m not an artist_

_really classy_

Tyson can’t help the chuckle that manages its way past his throat. _you’re making me laugh in class, stop that_

 _i mean :) i could :) make you laugh irl? :)_ There’s a pause and then, _i meant to tell you, i was thinking of coming to BC in spring?_

Tyson blinks. _gabe, holy fuck_

 

 

He throws together a quick little sign when he picks Gabe up from the airport, and covers it in glitter, because that’s sort of a staple of their relationship now. 

Tyson knows what Gabe looks like. They’ve, like, FaceTimed and everything. The modern age makes things like that so much easier, but it’s still so breathtaking to see him in person for the first time. After so, so long. 

At the airport, Tyson catches the exact moment Gabe’s face lights up with this sheer fucking glee when they meet eyes. For a second, he thinks he’s going to sprint down the escalator. For his own good, thankfully, he doesn’t. 

For both of their good, actually. Tyson isn’t sure how he’d deal with Gabe tripping or something.

When Gabe stops in front of him, he immediately lets go of his suitcase and—Tyson thinks he’s pulling him in for a hug. But he’s suddenly very aware of the hands on either side of his face, and then the lips pressed against his, and the only thought he can really conjure up in the moment is _wow_.

Because. Wow. Gabe’s lips are soft, and sweet, and Tyson tries not to linger because they’re in public for fuck’s sake, but it’s a lot to take in. All at once, too. With the snap of his fingers, he gets Gabe here, pressed up against him, and his tall ass stature is a lot more obvious all of a sudden. But also, he’s _kissing him_.

“Tys,” Gabe says, when he pulls back, and he sounds like he’s going to cry. He leans in to peck Tyson’s lips again. “Holy shit.”

“Not gonna lie, you’re _intense_ ,” Tyson tells him. “I mean, scratch that, why wouldn’t we make out in the middle of an airport? Dream date.” 

Gabe laughs, and there are little tendrils of excitement lying beneath it. “It’s just—I’ve wanted to meet you for so long. Like, here. In person. And now,” he gestures enthusiastically between them. It makes Tyson smile.

“I have, too,” Tyson says, reaching for his hand. He gives it a squeeze, watching Gabe’s expression melt into familiar admiration. “Actually, longer than you. A year longer.”

Gabe groans, shoving him fondly. “Shut up.”


End file.
